


I Think I Found My Voice

by Mirimage



Series: Dream SMP oneshots [4]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Ghostbur, Hurt/Comfort, Insane Wilbur Soot, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Pre Tommy's exile, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Wilbur Soot, Song Lyrics, Wilbur Soot Angst, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, happyish ending, just a bit, philza minecraft, probably ooc tommy, the obligatory sad wilbur saline solution fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:42:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28089468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirimage/pseuds/Mirimage
Summary: Wilbur hadn't written a song since the early days of the L'Manburg revolution. He stopped writing during the weeks of the Election, and stopped singing entirely in Pogtopia.Ghostbur's transparent hands couldn't hold a guitar half of the time, and the song he wrote made Tommy's heart ache.He didn't know which was worse.
Relationships: TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Dream SMP oneshots [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963615
Comments: 4
Kudos: 158





	I Think I Found My Voice

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve been thinking about Saline Solution and Your Sister Was Right in terms of SMP!Wilbur for ages now, but since I can’t draw the animatic of YSWR I've been imagining will just have to stay in my head. I did manage to write this though, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (I’m also working on a much longer Techno/SBI centric fic, so keep an eye out for that.)

Tommy hadn’t really talked to Wilbur—or Ghostbur, as everyone was calling him these days—since the battle against Manburg.

_(Since the ring of explosions had faded from his ears and the dust had settled and Tommy had looked up from the wreckage to see his father stab his brother through the chest.)_

He’d seen him floating around the boardwalks of New L’Manburg, creating little structures and hanging decorations with an innocent smile. He’d seen him talking to Phil, and Tubbo, and Fundy and Quackity and Karl, but couldn’t bring himself to engage.

The ghost reminded Tommy of Wilbur when he was younger, unburdened by war and leadership and madness. It was an uncomfortable reminder, that carefree Wilbur in his old yellow sweater, and Tommy couldn’t shake the feelings _(rage and guilt and so much pain)_ that rose every time he heard gentle humming drift across the bombed-out landscape.

* * *

When they were younger, Wilbur was always singing. He carried his guitar everywhere and the halls of their home on Phil’s private server echoed with half formed songs plucked by careful fingers.

When he had arrived on Dream’s SMP his guitar was slung securely across his back, and Tommy had unashamedly begged him to sing at the first chance he had. They had sat down, just the two of them, and Wilbur had played a backlog of songs he had written in his absence.

He had sung all the way through the founding of L’Manburg. It wasn't just the two of them anymore, and they spend nights clustered around a fire pit, or crammed into the Camarvan, listening to whatever new tune Wilbur had thought up. They sang the ‘national anthem’ with a chorus of off-key voices until Wilbur had laughed himself hoarse, but still sang for them some more.

After the revolution, the songs he played grew repetitive, the stresses of leadership sapping his time and energy. As the election date approached, the guitar gathered dust in a corner, exchanged for stacks of policies and voting papers.

Wilbur left it behind when they fled to Pogtopia. The last time Tommy had heard Wilbur sing, his voice had echoed from the dark of a room hollowed from stone and lined with explosives, words of an anthem once sung proudly now shaky and disjointed.

* * *

“Phil!”

Tommy wasn’t sure the ghost had noticed him as he waved in excitement, shoes drifting just above the wooden planks. He briefly considered hiding, but by the time he’d resolved to jump into the crater below Wilbur was already right next to them.

“Hi there, Ghostbur.” Phil said, his voice gentle. Phil always spoke gently with Wilbur these days.

Everyone politely ignored the way he radiated guilt and misery in the presence of his oblivious son, the way he hadn’t touched a diamond sword since that day.

_(They ignored the way that Wilbur remembered his death—that his death at the hands of his father was a good memory.)_

“I haven’t seen you with that for a while.” Phil nodded at the guitar clutched in greyed hands, and Wilbur shifted. Tommy couldn’t tell if he was excited or nervous, or something else.

“Well, you know I don’t remember anything Alivebur did, yeah?” He paused, hands fidgeting against the strings. “But I remember feelings.” Wilbur’s voice was plaintive as he looked up, eyes big and dark. “They’re not very nice feelings, Phil.”

Tommy would have scoffed if it wouldn’t draw Wilbur’s attention. Of course this sad spectre of his brother would find any reminder of his past actions unsettling. Of course he could only remember _feelings_. He always was the most emotional of the three of them.

“So I wrote a song! I remember you telling me songs are good for getting rid of bad feelings.”

Phil patted the edge of the boardwalk next to him, offering a soft “Let’s hear it then” as he settled down crosslegged with the guitar in his lap. His face bore a slight frown of concentration as his fingers slipped through the strings a couple of times and he counted himself in.

“ _I think this time I’m dying…_ ”

Tommy felt Phil tense from where he was tucked up against his side. Sometimes he forgot Phil only bore witness to Wilbur’s final act, that he never saw the slow descent into insanity and the moments where Wilbur seemed almost aware that he was slipping. 

“ _I think I’ve lost my mind, blurring the fact and the fiction…_ ”

Wilbur had moments of lucidity, moments where the madness would fade from his eyes and he would become something close to the man he was before. On the morning of the final battle, when Tommy had slipped in frustration and called him his childhood nickname ( _“Just put on the armour, for fuck’s sake Wilby-”_ ) he had spun around with a startlingly unguarded look and the teasing that followed was so familiar he almost cried when it faded back into frenzied muttering.

“ _If I could just break one more night, maybe I could wake up and feel alright…_ ”

Tommy remembered the nights in Pogtopia; the way the wind whistled through the ravine and chilled him to the bone, the echoing drip of water, the flickering torches that threatened to blow out at any second. He remembered how Wilbur had clutched his coat with frenetic hands, pacing back and forth, eyes wide and wild and bloodshot from lack of sleep. No one had ever gotten enough sleep in Pogtopia, but Wilbur was without a doubt affected the worst. 

“ _I think I've made my choice, I’m a disease playing victim, slip the face slip the victory…_ ”

The day Wilbur had finally snapped stood clear in Tommy’s memory. The way he had stumbled through the conversation at first, gaining momentum as halting questions turned into quiet resolve, as “ _Are we the bad guys?_ ” turned into “ _Let’s be the bad guys_.” As “ _We need to take back L’Manburg_ ” turned into “ _Let’s blow them to smithereens._ ” Into “ _If we can’t have Manburg, no one can._ ” He remembered the way Wilbur’s voice had hardened, edging into a cruel rage as his speech grew more and more violent. He remembered the way he had stuttered over his words, suddenly uncertain and wary ( _and very very afraid._ )

“ _I think I've made my choice, sink secluded in hatred, void the plans friends are making…_ ”

Once, Techno had sat down in front of the fire and beckoned his brothers close. He had wrapped his cloak, heavy and familiar, around Wilbur’s shivering shoulders. Tommy had pressed close to his side, tugging the corner more securely into place. They had fallen asleep like that, huddled together, and in the morning Wilbur looked slightly better rested, slightly more grounded.

The next time Techno had reached out, Wilbur snapped and snarled and stalked off to some dark corner alone. He drew away from any kind of touch or comfort they offered, spiralling further with every rejection. Tommy could do nothing but watch helplessly as Wilbur isolated himself to fester in his growing instability, alone.

“ _I think I've found my voice, I’m a leech sucking blood bags, taste defeat, it's a sandbag…_ ”

He had never quite worked out when Wilbur had decided the destruction of L’Manburg was inevitable. Was it the day after the festival, after Tommy and Quackity had managed to talk him down in the oppressive shadow of the button room? Was it the day of their failed plan to unseat Schlatt, after Fundy had revealed his diary and Dream had abruptly rescinded his support? Was it some otherwise unimportant day during the lull between events, when they were planning and preparing for yet another war? Was it the day of the final battle, despite the support of their friends, and Techno’s bunker, and Dream’s surrender, and Schlatt’s death? He had never worked out if there was anything more he could have done to save L’Manburg, to save his brother, and now he never would.

“ _Solution to all your problems…_ ”

Wilbur’s voice tapered off into a laugh, quiet and broken.

“Why do I feel like this, Phil?”

Tommy’s hands were clenched into white knuckled fists, and Phil’s eyes shone glassy with tears.

“I don’t want to feel like this."

Phil made a little heartbroken noise and pulled his dead son into a tight hug, ignoring the drip of inky black tears and vibrant red blood staining his coat.

Wilbur’s hoarse voice broke into a sob, and for just a second Tommy could see a brown coat and a bloodstained diamond sword speared through his chest.

Had anyone hugged Wilbur since his death?

Tommy hesitated, and then tugged the sleeve of Wilbur’s sweater. He briefly caught a teary look of surprise as he let his grip fall, turning away to gaze across the rebuilt nation as he curled his fingers around Wilbur’s transparent hand.

And if Tommy leaned his head against his family to hide his own tears? None of them said a word.

**Author's Note:**

> Uh I'm on twitter @m1r1mage if anyone is interested in following me there? I mostly just retweet fan art and tweet the occasional midnight thought.


End file.
